


The Enchanted Florist

by roswyrm



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Awkwardness, Bad Flirting, Hamid? High Charisma? Sounds Fake., Language of Flowers, M/M, NOBODY READ THIS, Trans Male Character, Uncomfortable Times, YOU EVEN FUCKING LOOK AT THIS FIC AND I WILL STOMP YOU TO DEATH WITH MY HOOVES, abandoned probably forever, sorry - Freeform, the little old ladies from calais are my fav npcs im not gonna lie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-08-27 11:55:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16702066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roswyrm/pseuds/roswyrm
Summary: The Enchanted Floristreads the cursive sign hung on the new flower shops' glass door.Ranger's Tattoos and Piercingsflashes the handmade light-up sign carefully (precariously) balanced on top of the tattoo parlour's metal awning.





	1. In Which Hamid Meets The Neighbours

**Author's Note:**

> oh no why are you reading this stop that. Working Title: _"wow touch is going really well maybe i won't abandon it after all" they said_

It doesn't take a lot to make Hamid cry. (Once, he dropped his ice cream bar and sobbed for a minute straight. Hamid was five at the time, but he's yet to attend a family dinner without being reminded.) But even if Hamid didn't cry easily, he'd probably cry now. Bertie continues his jazz hands for another half-second. "Do you like it?" he asks, and he set up an _entire shop_ for Hamid, and now Hamid's crying tears of joy. "Hamid?"

Hamid sniffles and beams up at his friend. "I love it. Thank you, Bertie." Bertie smiles back. True, the display could use a bit of sprucing up, and the blooms probably need some reviving, and the sunlight is all wrong for where the flowers are placed, but it's _perfect._

Now all he needs are customers.  
\---  
He's just arranged his playlist for the store and pressed play when the small windchime hung over the door rings. He rushes to the front desk. "Hello," he greets the two ladies that come in, "how can I help you today?"

The shorter one beams up at him. "Oh, we're just looking. Are you the enchanted florist, then?"

"Certainly enchant _ing,"_ interjects the taller woman, and the shorter one laughs and elbows her in the ribs.

Hamid's had enough customers at his old job to know the type. They're just browsing, and they're probably not going to buy anything, but they'll be more than happy to muck up the flowers and muck with the employees. Hamid also knows how to get them to make a purchase anyway. He leans over the counter slightly and gives them his best smile. "Well, that's quite kind of you, but I'm afraid enchant _ed_ is more accurate. I mean, what else could I be after meeting you two?"

The ladies chorus, "Ooh!"

The song that's playing is something acoustic and soft, with poetic lyrics about dandelions and wild thyme. He doesn't sell either of those.

He _does_ sell two small pink and yellow arrangements, grinning to himself as the little old ladies (Doris & Sandra) argue all the way out the door about which one of them he was flirting with.

("You look like a cat when you're smug," Aziza had once remarked. "If you had a tail, it'd be flicking like Tahir's does whenever he thinks he's gotten away with something.")  
\---  
The simple bouquet of yellow lilacs, daffodils, and baby's breath Hamid put together is beginning to feel woefully inadequate. Mr Gusset, the man who makes all of the toys, is giving him a delighted and fast-paced tour of his shop.

"And over _here_ ," Mr Gusset says, and Hamid just came over to say hello. It isn't that he's zoned out, it's just that he's not paying close attention. Or any attention. He... may have zoned out a bit.

Hamid tries, for the umpteenth time, to politely extricate himself from the tour. "Excuse me, Mr Gusset, the flowers?"

"Hm? Oh! Yes! Of course, thank you very much for these, Hamish."

"Hamid," Hamid corrects. Mr Gusset blinks at him vacantly. "My name. It's Hamid, not Hamish."

Mr Gusset waves a dismissive hand. "Sorry, yes, Hamid. Thank you, _Hamid._ I'll take these, and then I can show you all of my music boxes!" He yanks the arrangement from Hamid's grip and scurries off somewhere. Hamid slinks off to where he thinks the exit was. 

Mr Gusset probably won't remember that he was supposed to get a tour, anyway. They'd gotten off of the original track at least seven times.  
\---  
Cafes and Flower shops are, in Hamid's opinion, destined to get along well together. The cafe that's a little way down the road from Hamid's shop reminds him of someplace that Saleh would take him.

("It's this little shop no one's ever heard of," Saleh enthused, and Hamid didn't see the appeal. Saleh groaned at the look of suspicion on Hamid's face. He urged, "Come on, Hamid, it's great. They've got hot chocolate!" Hamid wasn't one for hipster coffee shops, but he's easily bribed with food, so he'd resigned himself to mason jars with paper straws and bare lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling.)

The cafe has a sign that reads, _The Bloody Bulldog_ , and there's a graphic of a bulldog's head with its tongue lolling out. Hamid is beginning to think this isn't a place that will appreciate his flowers. But, he's going to have to go in regardless, because it would be rude to give a hello gift to some people and not others.

Hamid takes a deep breath and brushes some imaginary dust off of his outfit. He'd originally planned on wearing a three-piece suit to work, but Bertie had pointed out that that could be a bit much. So, a button-up and a waistcoat would have to do. Reminding himself not to crush the flower stems in his anxious hands, Hamid steps inside.

The strong scent of coffee is the first thing he notices. It overpowers everything else, and Hamid's nose scrunches involuntarily. He can _see_ the pastries and sandwiches carefully displayed in the glass, but he certainly can't _smell_ them past the coffee. It's somewhat disappointing; Hamid loves the smell of pastries. There's no one behind the counter, so Hamid takes a few cautious steps further inside. "Hello?"

An oven door slams shut, and Hamid starts. Someone walks out from the kitchen, and they're _massive._ They're holding a tray of small pot pies that look like they belong on the cooking channel, not a seedy cafe. The big person notices Hamid, and the glower deepens. "Hi."

Hamid waits for them to continue.

They don't.

"Uh," Hamid stammers, feeling about as far out of his element as possible, "hello! Sorry to interrupt you, I just moved in down the street? Um, I'm the florist." The person's expression doesn't change at all as they set the tray down on the glass display case. Hamid is suddenly concerned that he's about to be turned into a pie, or something. 

(He's been watching a lot of scary movies, okay? And this person's glare isn't helping with the situation.)

Hamid holds out the arrangement he made. Just a few sprigs of lavender with a few purple carnations. Minimalist, like the decor he'd noticed from outside. "I brought this. As a- as a sort of hello gift? I guess? Um, it's fine if you don't want it--" the big person reaches out and takes the bouquet. "Or you can take it! That's also good!"

Grag (according to their nametag) inspects the flowers. A small smile breaks across their face, and it's almost more worrying that the glowering. "I like it," he growls, and Hamid is so worried about the voice that he doesn't register for the words for a second.

"Oh! Um, thank you!" Grag nods and goes back into to the kitchen. Hamid isn't quite sure if he's supposed to leave or what, but then Grag comes back out with the arrangement in a mason jar with some water in it. They're also holding a cup with steam coming off of it. They set the makeshift vase down next to an... espresso... machine..? Hamid doesn't know. Grag places the cup in front of him on the counter.

They gesture at it and say, "On the house," before starting to arrange the pot pies in the display case. Hamid smiles gratefully and scurries back to his store, coffee in hand. 

Hamid... doesn't really like coffee, but he's never known how to turn someone down. He starts thinking up an arrangement for the tattoo parlour across the street.

(Blue, probably, with some yellow thrown in to match the sign. Hamid isn't looking forward to delivering that bouquet; the parlour seems intimidating.

But, he's going to have to go in regardless, because it would be rude to give a hello gift to some people and not others.)


	2. In Which Zolf Has An Interesting Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i make a spiderverse reference in this chapter? ...maybe.

Sasha enters the shop swearing as loudly as she possibly can. Harringay raises his eyebrows. Zolf shrugs; there's not much he can do about his employee's mouth. He still calls, “Harringay's in, watch it.” Sasha storms into the back with a coffee and the _filthiest_ look Zolf's ever seen her hold. It's almost three in the afternoon, why does she have coffee? “Are you alright?”

She slams her cup down (it makes a hollow thudding noise, which means she's already drunk all of the caffeine she'll need for a week in the five minute round trip it takes to get to Grag's) and turns to address Harringay. “You're a cop, right?”

Harringay blinks. Sasha doesn't usually address him. “Yeah. Why?”

“Leave, _right now,_ because I'm about to start planning a _murder.”_

Harringay levels a concerned side-eye at Zolf, who sighs. He says, “I'll talk her down.”

Sasha hisses, _“Murder,”_ and Zolf flaps a hand at her. She's gotten into enough trouble with the police already, and this isn't helping. Harringay raises his eyebrows further, but he stands up and starts making his way out of the shop.

As he gets to the curtain that separates the front from the workstation, he says, “Please don't let your employee kill anyone, Zolf.”

Zolf smiles disarmingly. “Wouldn't dream of it, Sergeant.” 

Harringay rolls his eyes. “If I had a nickel for every time you've used that line, I'd be a rich man.” Zolf shrugs. (It's not like he can deny it.) Harringay waves long-sufferingly and steps behind the curtain.

Sasha continues to swear violently until the door opens and shuts. Zolf asks, “Who are you going to murder?”

Sasha puts her hair up into a ponytail as she groans, “My landlord!”

Zolf scoffs and starts going through the checklist. The parlour isn't open yet, but it's going to be any minute, and he'd rather not get delayed by Lamentations on Landlords, Part Two Thousand. “What'd he do, this time?”  
\---  
It's far too hot outside. And it's far too hot _inside,_ because the AC is broken. And Zolf has to move heavy boxes of he-honestly-doesn't-want-to-know-what that Sasha's landlord accidentally got delivered to them. Because he's not only the worst landlord, he's also the worst _person_.

Sasha's busy piercing a little girl's ears in the back, and she's not all that strong anyway, so Zolf's stuck doing the heavy lifting. He's going to try and move the boxes off to the side so they won't _block the door_ , and then he's going to ignore his responsibilities so he can take an hour-long nap.

From the back, Sasha asks, “Oi, Boss, where do we keep the temporary tattoos?”

Zolf stops trying to pick up one of the larger boxes and goes into the back himself. “Uh, they should be around here. Although, I guess that depends on the kind you want.” The girl— tiny and blonde, with little pigtails— stares up at him with wonder. He always seems to get that reaction from little kids, especially the ones who like pirates. Adults usually see the tattoos and the prosthetic and actively make to avoid him. He gets the tins filled with temporary tattoos out and offers them to her. “Which kind do you want?” he asks, and she beams at him.

She points to the tin full of pirate designs, (called it) and Zolf hands her a sheet. “Good choice,” he tells her, and she giggles. Zolf stands back up and tells her mom, “I can ring you up out front if you're ready.” The mom nods and takes her daughter out front by the hand.

“Have you gotten better with kids?” Sasha asks.  
“I've always been good with kids.”  
“You tried to have a theological discussion with my little cousin.”  
“...I've always been semi-decent with kids.”  
\---  
The bell over the door rings. “Hello,” Zolf greets, still hauling boxes, “sorry about the mess. Give me a second.” He sets one of the lighter crates on top of a stack and turns around. Giving one of his best customer-service smiles, he says, “And, sorry about the shirtlessness. It's sweltering. How can I help you today?”

Two little old ladies beam up at him. The one on the right agrees, “Oh, yes, very hot,” as she nudges the little old lady on the left.

“Steaming,” concurs the one on the left, very obviously staring at his chest. And maybe she's distracted by the seascape he has there, or maybe she noticed the surgery scars, but she's probably ogling him. So that's _great_. “We were just hoping for some small tattoos.” She waves her wrist as if it's proof of their intent.

The first woman chimes in, “I'd like an old motorcar, please! It's the first thing I ever won a race in.” Zolf turns to tell Sasha that they've got customers, but she's already right there behind him; he only jumps a little. 

(He's seriously considering getting her a bell.)

The second old lady argues, “That was a tie, and you know it, Sandra!” Sandra smiles beatifically at her friend. The friend continues, “I'm getting a gyrocopter because I had the most fun in that race. Have you ever ridden in a gyrocopter? It's so much fun, and,”

Sasha fidgets with the hem of her shirt. If Zolf knows her at all (and he'd like to think that in the past three years he's gotten to know her fairly well), she's trying to figure out when to interject and rescue Zolf from them. But Zolf is a grown man who can rescue himself. Because he's intelligent, and well-spoken, and not wholly out of his depth.

Sandra gets up on her tiptoes and tugs on his beard. “This looks so nice!” she declares, and Zolf is _so_ far out of his comfort zone, “Doesn't this look nice, Doris? Ooh, how'd you plait this?”

Doris agrees, “Yes, yes, it's very stylish! Oh, he's almost as cute as that gentleman across the way, isn't he, Sandra?”

“Oh, yes, he certainly is!”

“Uh,” Zolf says, only kind of sounding incredibly uncomfortable, “ink? I mean, you said you wanted tattoos, right?”

“Ooh!” they chorus. Sasha steps back and sweeps the curtain open for them to go through. They walk together into the back, babbling at each other the whole way. Sasha gives him a look that roughly translates to _“help me”_ and Zolf sighs.

“Do you want to do the car or the gyrocopter?” He asks as he grabs his shirt from behind the counter and throws it back on.  
\---  
They're on a quick break, and they've flipped the sign on the door to _Closed_. Sasha wipes some sweat off of her brow (a leather jacket is just stupid, even if it is cooling off) and stands up. “Anything you want from the Soggy Admiral?” she asks, holding up Zolf's wallet.

Zolf doesn't want to know when she grabbed that from him. “Maybe a coke?” She takes a fiver out of his wallet and starts out the door. “Hey, no, I'm not paying for yours!” 

She's gone before he finishes his sentence.

Brat.  
\---  
The parlour is blessedly empty. It's never exactly _full_ , but there's always this weird drop right around now. Sasha always takes full advantage of this and goes to hang out with one of her friends. Zolf is just finishing up moving all of the boxes when the bell over the door rings. Zolf doesn't groan, because that would be unprofessional, and he's not trying to drive away paying customers. He doesn't particularly care to turn around, though, so he goes through the usual spiel with his back turned. “Hey, welcome to Ranger's— we're still working on the name— how can I help you?”

A voice that's higher than he was expecting stammers, “Uh. Hi. Sorry, I, um, I just? I moved in across the street, and I was just going home, but I figured I'd stop by with a gift. Like a, a sort of? Hello gift? I, um, suppose?” Zolf sets the crate down and turns around. 

There's a handsome person, in a fancy waistcoat, standing in the entrance to Zolf's tattoo parlour. With flowers. 

(Zolf, sweaty and shirtless, begins to wish desperately he wasn't either of those things.)

The man stares at Zolf for a second before gesturing vaguely with the bouquet in his hand. “I brought these. For you. I mean, not _you_ specifically, just—” Right, yeah, the rambling is probably Zolf's cue to say something.

He leans on the counter. “Are you the enchanted florist, then?” _Being sarcastic and making fun of his store name, what a great opening gambit,_ real _smooth._ The man ducks his head, smiling self-consciously. It's cute, and not at all fair.

“You have no idea how many times I've been asked that,” he laughs, “but, um, most people just call me Hamid.”

Zolf reaches out to shake his hand. “I'm Zolf. Nice to meet you.” Hamid blinks at him for half a second before taking his hand. Zolf honestly couldn't tell you if they _actually_ stand there for a second, frozen, staring at each other, but it certainly _feels_ like it. There's total silence for a moment before Hamid seems to remember what he's holding in his left hand.

“Oh! Um, would you? Like these?” He holds the flowers out as he takes his hand away. Zolf takes them, using the blue and yellow flowers as something to stare at that isn't the florist's face. “They're dahlias. The blue ones are, anyway. And um, there are some asters and ranunculus. I figured—” he runs a hand through his perfectly-styled hair, mussing it up— “they matched the sign colours, so.”

Hamid seems about to fall apart from anxiety. Zolf puts a calming hand on Hamid's shoulder. “Hey,” he says, and he hopes that his smile is reassuring, “thank you, Hamid. They look nice.”

Hamid laughs awkwardly. “Um,” he stutters, staring at his shoes, “of course. And thank you for saying so! I should, um, probably be going? Now?” Zolf nods and sticks the bouquet in a half-empty plastic waterbottle Sasha left out. (If she didn't want it repurposed, she shouldn't have left it open on the counter.) “Bye!” Hamid says, before practically running out the door. Zolf waves at him as he goes. Hamid doesn't see this, because his back is to Zolf.

As soon as Hamid leaves his eyeshot, Zolf hits his head on the counter. “Why am I like this?” he asks the empty parlour.

“Because you're useless around pretty people,” answers the empty parlour, sounding suspiciously like Sasha.


	3. In Which Hamid Has Several Painful Conversations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i introduce a character in this chapter i think you'll all recognise........... idk if she'll be recurring or not, but i Love Her regardless

So! Hamid has to fake his death and flee the country! Great! “I’m sure it’s not that bad,” comforts Saira over the phone. Hamid continues to pace his apartment. 

“I guarantee you, _it is that bad_.” She sighs, Hamid’s phone speakers turning the sound tinny and too-loud. She never believes him about these sorts of things. She always insists he’s overreacting. And, okay, most of the time he is, but not always! “Saira, I stalled out while we were shaking hands and just _stood there_. With his hand in mine. Staring at him.”

Saira laughs. Rude. Hamid collapses dramatically onto his bed, (and very nearly slams his head on the wall) all hope of comfort from his family _dashed._ “Hamid, worst case scenario, you just don’t get a tattoo or piercing from him. I think you’ll be fine.” Hamid groans in frustration. She’s right, of course, but he doesn’t have to _like it._

He changes the subject to what’s going on back home, and they make up heinous crimes that Saleh’s new friend has probably committed. Knowing Saleh, at least half of them have a grain of truth in them. Maybe not ‘pyramid robbing’, but you never can tell, with the people Saleh talks to.  
\---  
_I had to turn down a cheap apartment where there are no birds,_ Hamid thinks to himself bitterly, _because it wasn’t big enough._ He tosses and turns for a few more minutes, but he can’t get back to sleep. He groans and hides his face in the pillow. Oh, sure, he can sleep like the dead until he _actually needs to._ Stupid birds. He shuffles out of bed and starts making himself breakfast. 

His apartment is much nicer than the one Bertie had offered him. The clock on the stove marks it as 6:17 in the morning. Hamid is going to _kill_ those birds. He has over three hours until he needs to open the shop. “Stupid feathery jerks,” he grumbles to himself as he whisks the eggs together into a pan, “ruining my sleep.” Hamid isn’t exactly _himself_ in the morning. Though, _after_ being rudely awakened and _before_ breakfast, not many people would be.

He finishes cooking breakfast, and his phone starts ringing. It’s his alarm telling him to wake up. He doesn’t exactly need it to. He lets it ring out, the sound irritating, but not obnoxious enough for him to actually do anything about it. Besides, the outlet he left it charging by is so far away. What if he burnt the eggs?

The birds continue singing outside his window, and Hamid doesn’t start appreciating the song until his third serving.  
\---  
The song playing over Hamid’s speakers is something Saleh found for him, months and months ago. Hamid couldn’t tell you what the lyrics were if his life depended on it, but that is always a danger with indie acoustic music. The door chimes and Hamid looks up from his cup of tea to smile at the customer. “Hello! Welcome to the Enchanted Florist! How can I help you?” 

The young woman smiles at him, cheeks dimpling. Around college age, so she probably won’t be making any big purchases. “Hello. I need some flowers for my professor.” 

_Knew it,_ Hamid thinks to himself. She seems polite enough; it might be an appreciation gift. However, with close-shaved green hair, the professor might not appreciate _her._ “Are you thanking them for being such a good teacher, or are you trying to get into their good graces?” he asks.

The woman laughs sheepishly. “A little of both, I suppose.” Hamid smiles up at her, equal parts amused and sympathetic. “His favourite colour is pink, so. If that helps at all?” Hamid sets his tea down, gets off of his stepstool, and shows the woman around the shop. Little pre-made arrangements are everywhere, but so are small vases filled with individual types of blooms behind cards explaining their meaning. After a quick explanation, he smiles politely at the woman and goes back behind his counter. 

About five minutes pass, and she lays some crocuses and a rosebud down. Hamid smiles up at her. “Will this be all?” She nods silently, and the smile on her face is so big and genuine that Hamid can’t help but smile as well. He tells her the total, and she frowns a bit (students always do) but pays easily enough. “Thank you for your patronage, Miss...?”

“Azu,” she answers brightly, “just Azu. Have an excellent day, sir!” and with a wave, she’s out the door. Hamid smiles. 

_If all of my customers were that sweet,_ he muses as he sips his (nearing cold) tea, _I’d do this just for their company._  
\---  
It’s about three thirty when Bertie bursts into his shop and slams £100 onto the counter. At the top of his lungs, he asks, “How do you say ‘fuck you’ in flowers?” 

Hamid doesn’t want to encourage him, but he _does_ need the money. 

He sighs and deposits the banknotes into the cash register. Say what you will about Bertie, but that _is_ actually enough for what he’s asking, and then some. “I’ll make you an arrangement. I can have that ready for you in—” he has all of the flowers here, it would just be a matter of arranging them— “about an hour.” 

Bertie squints at him like he isn’t sure if Hamid is joking or not. After a moment, he leans on the counter slightly. As if speaking to a small child, he says, “No, no, Hamid, I want _you_ to give him the flowers.” Hamid raises his eyebrows. 

It’s an unorthodox request, sure, but the money is still enough for a custom delivery. Hamid shrugs. As long as he doesn’t tell the recipient what the bouquet _means_ , it should be well and good. “Alright. Who am I giving them to, once they’re all set up?”

There’s a delighted glint in Bertie’s eye that never means good things. “One Mr Smith,” he bellows conspiratorily. Hamid has no idea who that is. He hasn’t met a Smith, and he’s met almost everyone in the district. Bertie (miracle of all miracles) seems to notice his confusion. “One Mr _Zolf_ Smith,” he says by way of clarification.

Oh, Hamid knows that name, that was the—  
Oh, no.  
Oh, _no_.

“Bertie, no. No, I can’t— I made a fool of myself the last time I saw him! I can’t give him _flowers!”_ Bertie shrugs, that fiendish grin still on his face, and taps the cash register. The devilish glint in his eye can’t be for Hamid, Bertie doesn’t enjoy tormenting him, but Hamid is beginning to hate it regardless. “I’ll still make the bouquet, but you’ll have to deliver it yourself,” Hamid compromises.

Bertie scoffs and leans further over the counter. “I’m going to be in a meeting, Hamid. It’s imperative that the flowers are delivered today, and I won’t be available.” Oh, great, there’s a deadline. Hamid screams internally. “Come on, old friend, for me?” Hamid’s internal screaming gets louder. He can’t turn Bertie down! Hamid still owes him a favour for setting up his shop! “I’ll tip extra.”

Hamid suppresses a groan. “No, no, that won’t be necessary, you’ve paid enough already. I’ll give him the bouquet when it’s done.” Bertie’s smile widens, and he claps Hamid on the shoulder. Hamid tries not to fall off of his stepstool from the force of it. And off Bertie goes, whistling to himself, leaving Hamid alone to regret his life choices.

Hamid texts his big sister, _3:34- I told you I would have to fake my death!_ and then starts working on the arrangement.  
\---  
The bouquet is ready by four fifteen, but it takes Hamid another half hour to actually try and deliver it. Eventually, though, he pushes open the clear glass door and steps inside. “You’re back,” says the woman behind the counter, and Hamid blinks at her.

He has never seen this woman before in his life.

She raises her eyebrows and looks at the veritable rainbow wrapped in black paper and tied with a red ribbon with something like approval. “And you brought more flowers. I’ll go get Zolf for you.” Before Hamid can ask her who she is, or how she knows the bouquet is for Zolf, or why she recognises him, she ducks into the back.

Hamid stands, confused, in the waiting area for about a minute before Zolf comes out. “Hey,” he greets, peeling off blue rubber gloves, “Sasha said you— are those for _me?”_ Well, Hamid knows her name is Sasha, now. That’s the _only_ thing he knows, but hey. It’s something.

Hamid holds the arrangement out for him to take. “Custom ordered for you,” Hamid answers, smiling a customer-service smile. Zolf takes them, and Hamid must be imagining the slight way his shoulders deflate when he says _‘ordered’._

“Ordered? By who?”

(“The problem with you, Hamid,” Saira told him, fiddling with a cherry stem, “is that you always sound like you’re lying.” Hamid had scoffed and popped a cherry into his mouth. She had laughed and poked him in the side. “You always pause! You always try and figure out what you should say before you say it. Ruins the whole effect.” Hamid had made a face at her. She’d made a face back. Now, he talks to quickly, sentence after sentence spilling out before he can stop to think if he really ought to say it.)

“Um, a friend of mine. Bertie MacGuffingham?” Zolf’s face freezes, the way someones does when they’re trying very hard not to grimace. Hamid can’t help but laugh. He raises his eyebrows and says, “I take it you recognise the name.” Zolf laughs too, sounding sheepish.

Hamid is purposefully ignoring the fact that Zolf’s hand is brushing his. It’s _difficult_ to ignore, but he does manage it. Zolf admits, “We’ve met, yeah. Did he say anything about _why_ he was ordering them?” He doesn’t try and take the flowers, just leaves his hand where it is. Hamid doesn’t want to let go of the bouquet, because then it would just fall to the floor. 

(Hamid also doesn’t want to let go because the touch makes him feel a little bit giddy, but that’s neither here nor there.)

Hamid stammers, “Oh, um, yes. He asked— well, he asked me how to say a rather rude phrase in flowers. So. Sorry, I suppose.” Zolf raises an eyebrow. He opens his mouth to say something, but Hamid cuts him off, “It’s written on the attached card. I’d rather not come into another man’s place of business and then swear at him if it’s all the same to you. I’m sure I’ve already embarrassed myself enough.” Zolf takes the bouquet, and Hamid quickly stuffs his hands in his pockets. 

Zolf opens the small card tied on with ribbon, and he gets about two words in before he starts cracking up. “Yeah,” he manages through laughter, “that does sound like him.” Hamid nods awkwardly. He turns to go, but Zolf says, “Hamid, wait.” There’s a wicked grin on Zolf’s face as he asks, “How much would it be to get the same thing delivered to him?”

Hamid blinks. “Um?” he stalls, thinking it over quickly, “about £95?” Zolf’s grin gets bigger.

“Sold. Stay there while I go get my wallet.”

Oh, Hamid’s accidentally started a feud. Great.

**Author's Note:**

> i don't have to explain myself to you.


End file.
